Silence
by Kweh-Chocoboco
Summary: Post-Reichenbach Fall. John tries to cope with Sherlock's death.


**I know, it's been ages since I last wrote something. Perhaps one day I will continue those other fics I was working on. Maybe I won't. I don't know.**

**Didn't feel like going to any classes today so I wrote a Sherlock fic instead.**

* * *

"One more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't be… dead. Would you do that just for me? Just stop it. Stop this."

The retired army doctor tried to hold back a sob, but he couldn't. After a few moments of silent crying, he wiped the tears from his face with his sleeve. One more time he touched the cold, black marble with the name "Sherlock Holmes" engraved on it; then he straightened his back and walked away, the stern look back on the soldier's face. His limp had returned.

Mrs. Hudson was already sitting in the car. She nodded at John as he entered the car, and she gave him a sad smile. "Baker Street" he said to the driver, putting on his seatbelt. No more words were said during the ride home; they both stared out the windows, not feeling the need to break the heavy silence.

* * *

John had thanked Mrs. Hudson after she had offered him her help, but he had told her that what he needed the most right now was to be alone; he needed time to think. Reluctantly he opened the door to the apartment. Their… No, now _his _apartment. He softly closed the door, as if not to wake anyone. He silently hoped that Sherlock would be lying on the couch, or sitting in his chair in front of the TV, but alas. Complete silence in 221B. John had come home to an empty apartment before; sometimes Sherlock would go out, not telling where he went, not returning for hours.

But this time, Sherlock wouldn't come back. Ever. Sherlock was dead. Gone. Forever.

He opened the door to Sherlock's bedroom, almost expecting to find the consulting detective there, sleeping peacefully. But the bed was empty; Sherlock hadn't even taken the time to make his bed in the morning, it looked like he had stepped out of it only moments ago. John closed the door and walked to the kitchen for a cup of tea.

The kitchen table was still covered with little notes, test samples, and of course, Sherlock's microscope. In the fridge he found more remains of unfinished experiments; he reached past the head and the thumbs for the last carton of milk. He never had gotten used to finding body parts in the fridge; now he would start to miss them.

John poured the boiled water into the teapot; he noticed he had boiled way too much. Enough water for two persons. He waited a few moments till the tea was ready, poured it into a cup, and walked to the living room to sit down in his chair. Slowly he drank his tea, carefully, so he wouldn't burn his mouth. He looked up from his cup, and could swear that he saw Sherlock sitting across of him. But he was gone again when John closed and re-opened his eyes.

The apple was still lying on the table. That damn apple. "I O U". The doctor grabbed the apple, and squeezed it tightly. He tried to calm his breathing, but it was no use. He let out a loud, heart-breaking scream and roughly opened a window. He threw the apple as far as he could; he couldn't care less if he accidentally hit someone. He kept his head out the window for a few more minutes, breathing in the cool evening air to regain his senses.

After he had calmed down a little, he poured himself another drink, something stronger than tea this time, and sat down on the couch. He turned the TV on to get rid of the painful silence in the apartment, and turned it off again when he felt what was the beginning of a headache. With the tips of his fingers he traced the bullet holes in the wall, from that time when Sherlock thought that shooting the wall was the best way to get rid of his boredom. They had never bothered to get the wall fixed again; Sherlock would get bored again one day, after all. But he never shot the wall again.

John curled up on the couch, having finished only half of his drink. He didn't bother to walk to his room; it wasn't like he was going to be in anyone's way if he slept on the couch. Slowly he drifted off into sleep, waking up every now and then, thinking he heard someone playing the violin, only to be disappointed by silence.

* * *

Ever since Sherlock had 'left' (John never used the words 'Sherlock' and 'dead' in one sentence.), this was how he spent the majority of his days. He had tried to keep working in the hospital, but after a few weeks of trying he had given up and stopped working there. Sometimes he would sit on a bench in the park, trying to deduce people. But there was nobody there to tell him if he was right; no snarky remarks about having missed nearly all the important details. Sometimes Greg would ask him for help on a case; Sherlock had taught him quite a bit after all. But it wasn't as fun anymore, it all felt useless.

Mrs. Hudson would keep him company every now and then, she couldn't bear to see John being so lonely, and of course, she missed the detective too. Countless times Sherlock had gotten on her nerves with his experiments or his lack of manners. But she had grown to be very fond of 'her boys' and had become almost like a mother to them.

Other days, John would visit Mycroft. They weren't the best of friends, but John figured it was better than sitting in his apartment, all alone. Sometimes Mycroft would tell him stories from when Sherlock was younger; often those stories would bring a smile on his face, even if only for a few moments.

* * *

John had spent the entire afternoon in the park, watching people, and he had had lunch with Mike. The sky was gray; it was probably going to rain later. He grabbed his cane, and got up from the bench. He took a few steps, slowly, because of his limp. He walked for a bit, and hailed a cab. "Baker Street, 221B." It was a quiet ride; neither John, nor the driver said anything. The silence, however, was broken by the sound of John's phone. _You have one new message._

**Come to St. Bart's. Need your help. Could be dangerous. –SH.**

"Excuse me sir, I changed my mind. Could you bring me to St. Bart's hospital?"

* * *

**Well, that was rather depressing, not? Well at least the ending was kind of happy. Hope you enjoyed it.**


End file.
